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For, more to me than birds or flowers,
And took with her the laughing spring,
She kissed the lips of kith and kin,
She left us in the bloom of May:
I walk, with noiseless feet, the round
Still o'er and o'er I sow the spring,
She lives where all the golden year
There haply with her jewelled hands
The wild grapes wait us by the brook,
And still the May-day flowers make sweet
The lilies blossom in the pond,
The bird builds in the tree,
The dark pines sing on Ramoth hill
I wonder if she thinks of them,
If ever the pines of Ramoth wood
I see her face, I hear her voice:
What cares she that orioles build
O playmate in the golden time!
The winds so sweet with birch and fern
A sweeter memory blow;
And there in spring the veeries sing
And still the pines of Ramoth wood
TELLING THE BEES.1
HERE is the place; right over the hill
You can see the gap in the old wall still,
And the stepping-stones in the shallow brook.
A remarkable custom, brought from the Old Country, formerly prevailed in the rural districts of New England. On the death of a member of the family, the bees were at once informed of the event, and their hives dressed in mourning. This ceremonial was supposed to be necessary to prevent the swarms from leaving their hives and seeking a new home.
There is the house, with the gate red-barred,
And the barn's brown length, and the cattle-yard,
There are the beehives ranged in the sun;
And down by the brink
Of the brook are her poor flowers, weed-o'errun,
year has gone, as the tortoise goes, Heavy and slow;
And the same rose blows, and the same sun glows, And the same brook sings, of a year ago.
There's the same sweet clover-smell in the breeze;
Tangles his wings of fire in the trees,
I mind me how with a lover's care
I brushed off the burrs, and smoothed my hair,
Since we parted, a month had passed,
To love, a year;
Down through the beeches I looked at last
On the little red gate and the well-sweep near.
I can see it all now, the slantwise rain
The sundown's blaze on her window-pane,
Just the same as a month before,—
The house and the trees,
The barn's brown gable, the vine by the door,—
Before them, under the garden wall,
Forward and back,
Went drearily singing the chore-girl small,
Trembling, I listened: the summer sun
For I knew she was telling the bees of one
Then I said to myself, "My Mary weeps
Haply her blind old grandsire sleeps
The fret and the pain of his age away."
But her dog whined low; on the doorway sill,
The old man sat; and the chore-girl still
And the song she was singing ever since
"Stay at home, pretty bees, fly not hence!
THE GIFT OF TRITEMIUS.
TRITEMIUS of Herbipolis, one day,
Thereat the Abbot paused,-the chain whereby
My beautiful, brave first-born, chained with slaves
"Woman!" Tritemius answered, "from our door
Thou hast our prayers;-what can we give thee more?"
"Give me," she said, "the silver candlesticks
God well may spare them on his errands sped,
Then spake Tritemius, "Even as thy word,
But his hand trembled as the holy alms
So the day passed, and when the twilight came